


Now bright in the sight of thine eyes

by orlena



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, During Canon, Gen, M/M, Multi, Pre-Canon, Tattoos, canon-typical weirdness, fragments, martin and his love of poetry, self-harm mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 10:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orlena/pseuds/orlena
Summary: It was Martin’s...well, not boyfriend, butsomething, who suggested it. Said it would be romantic, and badass, and areclaiming of the self-as carefree as any 16-year-old who had graduation, parties, and a driving license ahead of him could be.(Martin, and his tattoos.)





	Now bright in the sight of thine eyes

_That queen_  
_Of secrecy, the violet_  


It was Martin’s...well, not boyfriend, but _something_, who suggested it. Said it would be romantic, and badass, and a _reclaiming of the self_-as carefree as any 16-year-old who had graduation, parties, and a driving license ahead of him could be. He had very beautiful collarbones, and wanted a stylised stag’s head nestled between them. Martin didn’t have the courage to ask him why. He said _please_. He said _I need you there_. And that was enough, for Martin. 

It didn’t hurt as much as they warned him. A cluster of violets across the left of his ribcage, an unpleasant thrum and throbbing numbness that briefly blotted out the thought of what’s coming next. Briefly blotted out his boyf-his _something_, flirting with the receptionist at what was quite possibly the seediest tattoo parlour in London. It still cost Martin five months of measly savings and skipping meals and cashiering at Tesco’s. Possibly a hepatitis infection as well. 

A sheath of plastic, and they were on their way. Drunk on endorphins and cheap beer and then-and then. Wandering hands, against a back-alley wall, and the smell of an open bin close by. Martin watched the stag shiver and move above him, and wanted, quite desperately, to cry. To take this boy home. 

He didn’t go back to school again. He had a mother to take care of, and really, he preferred not to moisturise that new tattoo-_stupid, wasteful, selfish thing to do_-in a grubby boy’s bathroom. 

* * *

_Open afresh your rounds of starry folds,_  
_Ye ardent Marigolds!_  


The sixth week in the archives, Martin began to breathe more easily. He said hello to people when he passed them in the corridors. He remembered exactly how everyone in the office enjoyed their tea, which biscuits were Hannah’s favourite, that Giang liked the radio on in the morning, and that Magda preferred the door open during lunch and into the afternoon, because she overheated easily. 

He could-possibly-make this work. And Martin _liked_ these people. Liked them in a way he didn’t think he was allowed to, anymore. Liked that he could help them when they asked, with hunting down a book, or an artefact, or a person. Liked knowing about their families, even as he glossed over his own. Liked listening to their arguments over commas and semicolons, citation styles, battles with other libraries, other archives. 

If his mother’s indictments and barbed-wire comments were steadily devolving into pointed silences and monosyllabic grunts...well. She loved him, really. Underneath it all. And he loved her. There wasn’t enough of him left to think anything else. 

The sixth week in the archives, Hannah plonked the baby carrier on one side of his desk. 

She was breathing heavily. Martin froze for a moment at the sound, then jumped up to help her as she removed the harness from the wriggling bundle inside. 

“Here she is, the twelve-pound monster!” The baby in question began to wail rather loudly as Hannah paraded it around the office; it’s first, and likely last, visit to the Magnus Institute. 

_She_, not it. Martin didn’t have much experience with babies. He let the others crowd around, cooing over the baby’s shoes, and bright eyes, and loud orange onesie. He should probably go make tea-did they have decaf? Hannah should be having decaf, right? 

“Martin, stop skulking with the teabags and come over here-” 

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly-“ And yet here he was, holding the twelve-pound monster. Hannah kindly rearranged his arms to support her head. 

“It’s all right,” Hannah was laughing. “If she isn’t comfy, she’ll _definitely_ let you know.” 

Babies were soft, and sturdy, and overwarm. Martin wasn’t the smallest guy, and next to his mother especially, he loomed. His hands felt huge. But a baby had a different softness to it. Less...pointed, than his mother’s. Her eyes were too big for her head, and she already had a fuzz of dark curls tufting up against his hand. She wasn’t crying anymore, just staring up with an anonymous, voracious curiosity. And her onesie was actually golden-orange, not as garish as he had thought. Against the brown-dark-green-faded-yellow of the institute, it was very bright. 

She wasn’t crying. Martin’s achievement for the day. And she kept looking at him, even after he deposited her back into Hannah’s arms. 

Later that week, Martin realised he was sketching out a new tattoo. Orange Marigolds, like Keats had written, across his chest, and collarbones. He would have to wear button-ups and high-necked t-shirts, if he didn’t want the orange to peek through. 

* * *

_And there’s the windflower chilly_  
_With all the winds at play,_  
_And there’s the Lenten lily_  
_That has not long to stay_  


Looking back, he only vaguely remembered meeting Sasha for the first time. It had been an unseasonably warm day in May, and he had worn his thinnest shirt to work-so thin, in fact, that the greens and blues and yellows of the tattoos on his arms could be seen through the white. He certainly remembered feeling mortified. 

“No, no, they look great! The shading’s so well done, and the colours-“And well, Sasha was friendly, and interested, and calm, so he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, for her to see. 

“Tattoos _and_ bare forearms? Please, Martin, have some pity for my poor heart," Tim always knew exactly when to make his entrance. At least Martin no longer flinched when Tim brushed against him, or put an arm over his shoulders, and could look him steadily in the eyes, now. He knew better than to return-_whatever_\- but it wasn’t bad, exactly, either. That attention. 

Sasha glanced around, then bared one shoulder for them to look at the intricate tattoo curving across it, and down her back. Martin remembered that he complimented her on its style, and genuinely too. Martin remembered the gleam of interest in Tim’s eyes. He remembered Sasha jokingly making them promise to get matching tattoos. 

He cannot remember what her tattoo _was_, though. Strange, that it stings so much, that particular forgetting. 

* * *

_Thou hast shaken the snows from thy wings, and the frost on thy forehead is molten_  


“Is that...is that a spider?” 

Martin looked up; there was someone new in the office. Dark-haired, brown-skinned, trousers painfully well-ironed. Very thin. Staring at the tattoos on Martin’s forearms. A little lost-looking, and Martin felt himself respond. 

“Er, you mean my tattoo? Yes, it’s a golden silk orb-weaver, they’re famous for the huge webs they build, which tend to have a golden sheen. Um,” Martin petered off. The man, at this point, looked vaguely ill. 

“But _why_?” The look of distaste on the man’s face was so visceral Martin felt it like a slap. The deer-in the-headlights look that followed even more so. “Of course, what you do with your own-that is to say, it looks rather detailed-“ he floundered. He had, Martin realised, rather beautiful eyes. Dark as well, so dark that the iris was indistinguishable from pupil. It almost took the sting out of his words. Almost. 

Martin was feeling reasonably merciful today, however, and decided to put the stranger out of his misery. “Were you looking for someone? Hannah’s left early, and Giang said they won’t be back till four.” 

“Ah, I see. I did want to inquire about a particular book in the library collections, written circa 1640- I’ll write down the title for you. It mentions an abbey near Shrewsbury-“ 

The deep voice, and the silver threaded through his hair should have made him look older than mid-twenties. But Martin was very familiar with attempting to look wiser and better and older-_untouchable, unflappable_-than you truly are. And he’s certainly had more practice than, than- 

“Jonathan Sims,” Hannah told him later, after he had plied her with chocolate digestives (the woman was looking after a _child_; she deserved all the chocolate biscuits she could eat). “Bit of an odd duck, that one, from what I’ve heard. Keeps his head down, mostly, but can get-riled up. Still, academics and their peculiarities, hmm?” 

The man had spun on his heel and left, before Martin could offer any more platitudes. But he saw Jonathan Sims again, later, and continued to see him around, buried in case files, shivering between the stacks, fiercely hunched in on himself. Martin didn’t think it was possible to fiercely do such a thing, but as it turned out, Jonathan Sims would keep surprising him. 

* * *

_O Rose thou art sick._  
_The invisible worm,_  
_That flies in the night_  
_In the howling storm:_  


_Has found out thy bed_  


It always felt _more_, to be touched where there’s already ink. Like a layer of skin had been freshly peeled away, like he could be touched to the marrow. 

(That image no longer feels quite so romantic, anymore. The Statements, The Archives, Mary Keay and Jane Prentiss all took care of that.) 

Still, every boyfriend Martin had, every one-night stand, every in-an-alleyway-on-his-knees stand too, all enjoyed touching those tattoos, followed the patterns with fingers, then tongue. Sometimes, teeth. 

(Old habits died hard, and he never felt fully relaxed, taking someone home. As if his mother would be able to tell, smell a stranger’s sweat on Martin’s sheets. On Martin. Not that she let him visit, anymore, of course. Besides, in the before, their home was too bare, and cold, to let anyone come in. Martin always felt guilty for noticing how much homier his new, single-bedroom flat was, than anywhere he had resided with the woman who birthed him. Who loved him, in her own way. Of course.) 

Well, with the worms squirming at his door, he was certainly paying for the previous feelings of somewhat cautious contentedness. With choking nausea, at first. Then, with dread settling into every corner of the bathroom, pressing against his body until he felt drowned, pressed upon by water on all sides, leaden. He didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to drink. 

The noises of the worms had faded eventually, though Martin still _felt_ them, writhing. Bouts of dissociation had followed, rust-coloured and blue-spotted and stretched outside of time, his head so light and full of static it felt like one tiny tap against his skull would make everything spill out. The rising fog next, which helped him survive. He remembered that later. 

He remembered running his hands over his tattoos, over and over and over, because a white wriggling mass would show up easiest against the colours. Right? Right. The small patches of skin on his forearms, bare, inkless, were naturally the most tempting to cut into. 

He remembered breaking open the razor. Remembered setting the thin blade against his skin. 

Remembered looking again, at an _eye_, embedded in his flesh, between the swirling petals and webs. An eye all pupil. An eye that looked at him. An eye that blinked. 

It was then that Martin began to scream. 

* * *

_The sky_  
_is grey. It begins in mist_  
_almost at the ground_  
_and rises forever. The trees_  
_rise in silence almost_  
_natural, but not quite,_  
_almost eternal, but_  
_not quite._  


“Is that a new tattoo?” 

Martin almost upended the teacup into Jon’s lap. Small talk? At work? Please, Mr Sims, this is untoward! 

He pulled his sweater down over his forearm, and over the stylised eye. “Yes, had it done over the weekend. I can still type and work perfectly fine, it’s not a bother.” Martin wasn’t immune or oblivious to Jon’s opinion of him. And as long as Jonathan Sims worked harder than god, Martin Blackwood would do exactly the same, and not complain, thank you very much. 

A cup of tea to stop Jon from keeling over would not go amiss either. 

Jon’s face spasmed. “I didn’t mean-well. Good to hear.” Pause. “Did you manage to follow up with the Stefanoff family?“ There was definitely more silver in his hair, and this close, Martin could smell the cigarettes Jon had been sneaking at lunch. He resolutely tried not to feel like a creeper, and only felt mildly irritated at himself for still finding Jon’s scent pleasant. It was better to just give in, at this point. 

“I sent you a recording of the daughter’s follow-up statement, but her dad’s not talking to any of us, and the house has been condemned, so...” A blank look from Jon. “I can type up the statement if you like?” 

“Ah, yes. Thank you, Martin.” Jon’s being saying his name more often, or at least it felt like it, based on how frequently Martin had to go to the bathroom after leaving Jon’s office and splash water on his face to cool down. Pathetic. “Martin-“ There it is again. 

“Yeah?” 

“Are you-hmm. Is everything-to your liking?” To Martin’s _liking_? Jon seemed to recognise the gaff at the same time as Martin, if his wide eyes were anything to go by. 

Hmm. Well, _Jon_, was it to Martin’s _liking_ that he couldn’t go back to his flat, and had panic attacks, and didn’t feel like he could breathe or swallow properly outside the institute? Was it to Martin’s _liking_ that he couldn’t even go back for his poetry, that he hadn’t cooked a meal in _weeks_, that he looked at a corkscrew and saw _opportunity_? 

Even getting a tattoo hadn’t helped as much as before. And coming close to another body now was just-a disaster. Due to his long-standing crush on Jonathan Sims or recent trauma-who could tell? Certainly not Martin! 

He also ignored the gnawing, fizzing sensation in his gut. Jon _asked_. Because Jon _cared_. Because Jon might be _worried_. 

“I-I mean-well, security has been increased. And the cot is quite comfortable, from what I remember,” said Jon staring down at his desk again, the mention of sleeping clearly exhausting _him_. “Measures have been taken, I mean,” he looked up at Martin, one eyebrow twitching. “And at least no more dogs, or cats or-or birds will be brought into the institute, I assume.” 

_Oh, you fucking prick._

Martin turned towards the door before he could upend the teacup into Jon’s lap, on purpose this time. “I’ll type up the statement now, Jon. Please, drink the tea-you need to stay hydrated.” He caught another of Jon’s patented frustrated looks as he left the office. 

_How stupid are you, Martin? You’re a_ nuisance to him, _now more than ever. Why, out of all the people you could have chosen, it was_ Jonathan Sims? 

Well. At least Martin read enough poetry to know that it wasn’t, truly, a choice. It wasn’t entirely his fault, for a change. 

But. Also. Jon gave Martin a place to stay. 

And he’s always so-awkward, and clever, and so _particular_, all the time, about _everything_ (except his hair, which has grown long enough to start curling into his collar) and that _stricken_ look he gave Martin, not once but twice just now, and Martin is so, so stupid. 

Here is the secret that nobody knows-yes, he is a little in awe of Jonathan Sims, and yes, his voice and his posture and his hands and his ridiculous work ethic and his hair-well, Martin isn’t made of stone. But really, one of the best things of all, is watching Jonathan Sims eat his own heart out and bend over backwards to appear grown-up and buttoned-down and separate, so self-contained _all the time_. It’s just instinct to want to tap against that shell. 

Martin never denied that he was just a little petty. At least, never to himself. 

Sasha throws him a look from her desk as he leaves Jon’s office. She and Tim are honestly far too sharp for working in a place meant for dusty, incomprehensible academics. Thank god Jon was nothing like that, or Martin might have needed to quit, and then promptly jump in the Thames and get carried off by a convenient current, riptide or selkie. One could hope. 

For now, he gets to work. 

* * *

He gets to work. 

* * *

He gets- 

_You know what’s coming next._

Martin, in his more fanciful moments, thinks of it as a great library, endless pages unspooling, occasional moments caught in tape, in paper, for posterity. 

* * *

-He was so certain Jon was behind him, so certain he felt his gaze. His arms were on fire, and he could feel the threads, cutting paths across his skin, bleeding, guiding- 

He was so _sure_\- 

* * *

There is not so much poetry, after that. Or jokes. Or idle conversations. 

(But the corkscrew definitely came in handy.) 

* * *

Martin doesn’t want to talk about it, really. Tim shouts, then broods, then accepts Martin’s offers to eat outside the Archives, while Sasha spends her lunches, and dinners, and weekends, with her boyfriend. (That should have been their first clue.) 

Jon still accepts the tea. In between stints of stalking and paranoia, of course, but he still, sometimes, accepts the tea. 

* * *

Detective Daisy Tonner has pale skin. Not alabaster, not milk. Bloodless. She looks and acts like the type to have tattoos (Martin knows _he_ doesn’t look like the type). But he cannot imagine it. What he can imagine is the tattoo gun piercing her skin, and the colour just-sucked up into it, without a trace. Or like ink in water, dispersing into nothing, devoured. 

Martin could imagine Detective Tonner crushing the tattoo gun between her teeth. And maybe the tattoo artist as well. 

(Capillaries were broken in her eyes, and Jon’s. She was bruised. She was breathing. Underneath the dirt, Daisy’s skin was _pink_. Her skin-and the tape recorders-victories. Martin didn’t realise, then. The fog was rising.) 

Martin needs to sleep. 

* * *

Jon, hunched around the tape recorder, mouth moving, but Martin can’t hear anything. The curve of Jon’s spine against his shirt is so pronounced, it’s grotesque. His shoulder blades are right angles and Martin wants to put his hands there. He wants to put his mouth there. He wants warmth. 

_He wants-_

The fog is rising. 

* * *

Basira and her dark eyes were watching him. There was green in her eyes. Shoulders squared, forehead smooth. Implacable. She called Jon _funny_, and Martin wanted to throw something. Not at her, of course. But something needed to be thrown, preferably by Martin, preferably through Jon’s cloudy office window, behind which he was starving himself, or burying himself, or cleaving himself in two and _not fucking talking_\- 

* * *

His-the tattoos itch all the time. He has taken to wearing tight shirts, and several layers to bed, so he doesn’t tear at his skin in the night. It’s not altogether successful. 

* * *

Peter’s hand closes around his wrist. 

The fog is rising. 

His tattoos seem devoid, now, wrung dry and leeched of colour. The eye is closed. Martin tries to care. 

They had all cost him, after all. 

* * *

Hannah looked up at him, opened her mouth, then closed it again. She was showing pictures of her baby, the new addition to the family, welcomed. She was proud. She opened her mouth to beckon Martin closer- 

He turns back towards the archives. 

(Somewhere, in amongst the tapes and the papers, is the moment he learns his mother died.) 

* * *

Martin wonders, especially now, when the Archival kitchenette is quiet, and the others have gone-somewhere. Wonders if Peter also felt that ravenous, greedy instinct, the last fight against his lonely god. 

He remembers the way Peter looks when he talks about Elias. How Daisy tracks Basira’s movements, her every sigh and twitch and cadence change. They all know. They all know. 

How inconvenient, to be a thing that wants. 

“Martin!” Jon was silhouetted against the door. And Martin had been so _careful_. “Are you making tea?” He almost-puffed up, with that question, as if he could stop Martin from leaving by blocking the entrance. As if Martin couldn’t sink through the whole building now, if he wanted. 

“Just tidying up, actually-“ 

“Because I would like some if you're-“ 

Oh. They both stop at the same time. Nonetheless, Martin’s body had moved, on instinct, to pick up a mug and teabag. Even now, he is still so stupid. 

“Jon, I have to go-“ 

“No, it’s my fault, I’ll-” 

They both stop at the same time. Again. This was getting ridiculous. Jon was moving closer, trying to be sneaky about it, as if Martin was a startled deer, or a homeless cat. 

“Martin, I just wanted to-“ Jon stops. “Your tattoos.” 

_“What?”_

“They’re-they look faded. They look different, what did you do?” 

What did Martin _do_? Seriously, Jon? He was moving closer. Martin didn’t stop him. 

“Fluorescent light bleaches the colour Jon, they’ll look normal again in the morning,” he said, resisting the urge to pull his sleeves down, straighten his jumper. Hide. 

“_No_. They were brighter before. They were noticeable through your shirts.” 

And here Jon looked as if he had bitten his own tongue off, and turned a delicate shade of pink. 

Martin didn’t know what to say. Okay, that was a lie. He saw Jon’s arm move, fingers uncurling, a quick shuddering motion. He knew exactly what to say. He turned towards Jon. 

“Y-you can see for yourself.” God, how he hated himself for stuttering. But this, he could give. He would keep giving, and keep giving and keep giving-in another life, perhaps. One where he wasn’t a hand. A reflex. 

Jon wouldn’t look at him. But he raised his arm again, and Martin moved forward to meet him. He always seemed to forget that Jon was shorter than him, a lot shorter. _Do you need to look with your hands? That’s not very Beholding of you._ Jon still wouldn’t meet his eyes. But Martin felt the brush of his fingers across the tattoos on his forearm and wrist. Tracing, hands and eyes firmly on the leaves and webs punched into his skin. 

And Martin wanted nothing more right then, than to lean down and kiss his eyelids, and feel his mouth and sink his tongue inside, and brush his hands over Jon’s cheekbones, into Jon’s hair. Wanted to lean down further, where neck met jaw and prickled, slightly, and breathe him in. Just breathe him in, and nothing more, nothing Jon didn’t want- 

Jon met his eyes, and _knew_\- 

Martin snapped back, heard Jon gasp out a breath and begin to call out. He had to go-_stupid, wasteful, selfish thing to do_\- he was putting Jon in danger, he had to- 

Jon didn’t stop him. He was quiet. But the presence of his eyes followed Martin out of the kitchen, prickled across his back. They followed Martin through the corridor, out of the door, until he faded even from the Eye’s view, the burn diminished. He would not see Jon again. 

* * *

Martin was itching for a tattoo, for the first time in a rather long while, and he knew exactly where to get it, and of what. 

Nothing as cliched as the heart of course. Lower down, slightly bellow where the ribcage ends. Over the softest part of him, that he kept baring. Maybe now he would learn to stay tucked inside. 

* * *

_Parting they seemed to tread upon the air,_  
_roses by the zephyr blown apart_  
_Only to meet again more close._  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is my first time writing fanfiction in several years, so any comments would be appreciated. This fic was inspired by Kalgalen’s beautiful artwork, you can check it out [here](https://kalgalen.tumblr.com/post/184596454288/there-were-talks-about-martin-tattoos). Also, my own love for tattoos leading me to a fic which now seems only peripherally about tattoos. Oh well. Plus, Martin is a sarcastic, sharp and petty guy underneath the jumpers and soft spot for Jonny Sims, and I wanted to write about that a little. 
> 
> In order of appearance, poems included are:
> 
> _Blue Eyes by John Keats_  
_I Stood Tip-Toe Upon a Little Hill by John Keats_  
_The Lent Lily by Alfred Edward Housman_  
_March: An Ode by Algernon Charles Swinburne_  
_The Sick Rose by William Blake_  
_Sabbaths 1999, VII by Wendell Berry_  
_Isabella, or The Pot of Basil by John Keats_  
Title is from _March: An Ode by Algernon Charles Swinburne_
> 
> Also, the phrase, “The fog is rising” belongs to Emily Dickinson. The full quotations is: _“I must go in, for the fog is rising.“_
> 
> My tumblr is [here](https://carthavaru.tumblr.com/) if you want to chat about anything, including podcasts, spooky things and tattoo ideas.  
Thanks again for reading!


End file.
